


Twenty Feet Back

by floatingstark



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dad Jack Zimmerman, Daddy Kink, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatingstark/pseuds/floatingstark
Summary: Kent is aware this is a little odd; he’s standing behind some trees on the other side of the park, pretending to stretch but actually just high-key spying on a hot dad and his kid.





	

*

 

Kent knows what he looks like is the thing. He knows when he walks into a bar; guys look him up and down, and then decide that a wannabe frat-boy is not their thing. And he gets it. Really, he does. He’s short, but he’s a professional athlete. His muscles have muscles. And as nice as that makes his ass ( _very_ nice, according to those who have gotten to know it), it also kind of makes him look like the sort of guy that takes mirror selfies at the gym and is only into dudes when they’ll suck him off.

His style certainly doesn’t help this image, if anything it heightens it. But Kent can’t help it. He _likes_ pastel colored board shorts; he lives in Vegas for fucks sake it’s too hot most of the time, suns out guns out isn’t a motto it’s the only way to run errands without dying of heat stroke. And yeah, maybe his snapbacks are kind of douchey, but Kent dares any guy with a cowlick as stubborn as his to go out with the boys and not feel self conscious when he still gets carded at 26 because his hair is so unruly he looks like a teenager.

So yeah, Kent knows he looks like Grade A Fuckboy material. And it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s made peace with this fact, had to after year of only getting picked up by virtual clones of himself who let him suck them off in the bathroom while they looked at themselves in the dingy mirror.

That doesn’t make it suck any less. Sure, when he was eighteen and fresh out of the Q, it was kind of nice. Here were some hot guys who explicitly wanted a no-strings-attached good time. And yeah, maybe sometimes he wished people would stay in the morning (would stay at _all_ , the traitorous part of his brain whispered.), but it was still fun and easy and so mind numbingly _new_ that he didn’t think about it too much.

So he ignored the twinge he felt when his partner grabbed him too hard, or when someone told him he was being too clingy, too needy, or when his temporary house-mate, Smithy, a kind eyed older teammate who offered to house Kent with him and his wife until he was settled enough to find his own place, gave him worried glances when he stumbled into the house early the next morning looking withdrawn and a little worse for wear.

It definitely wasn’t like Kent was going to get much better. Kent looked like the kind off guy mothers warn their daughters about, the kind that fuck and run, breaking hearts left and right. His smile wasn’t warm and genuine; it was a cocky smirk, a quirk in his lips more than anything. Guys that wanted him were egotistical; they were after the anonymity and the quickness that came with hockey players.

So yeah, maybe it hurt a little. And yeah, maybe now Kent is kind of known for fucking and chucking, a good-looking asshole whose only looking for a fuck, but what’s new? He already looked like one. He wasn’t acting that much different in the years that followed, no different than how people expected him to act, no different than how his dad told him he was, or his mom’s boyfriends after, more forcefully.

Kent just protects himself better these days. He still loves people, lets people in like the relatable, friendly captain of the Aces he soon became. He even sometimes has boyfriends that don’t last long. It’s just that now Kent owns it. He doesn’t let it defeat him anymore when the buttoned up guy with glasses nursing a scotch in the corner doesn’t even give him a second glance. He just adjusts his hat, swallows, and grins.

“Thank fuck for air conditioning,” Jeff sighs in relief as they make their way to their table, a small booth tucked away in the back they’ve claimed as their own. It’s just him, Swoops, and Kirk; they live in the same building and make a point to grab drinks once a week, to bitch and moan about their lives like only the young and wealthy can.

“Amen to that brother,” Kent agrees, patting Jeff on the shoulder. “I’m never gonna get used to this fucking heat.”

“You guys have lived here like, ten years,” Kirk chuckles. “Get fucking used to it already,”

Kent shoves him, “One, I’ve lived here nine years, so fuck you. And two, it gets hotter every year because the Earth is dying, so double fuck you.”

Jeff nods, holding out his fist to Kent, “Wrecked.”

“Double fuck me?” Kirk gasps as he slides into the booth, “Wow. I babysit your fucking cat while you go on your Grindr dates and this is the thanks I get? I should of told your date if he actually believed you’re an inch over 5’9” like you want everyone to believe he’s gonna be real disappointed about the rest of your measurements.”

“You’re just mad Parse was getting some and you spent your night snuggling with Kit and watching the Bachelorette,” Jeff chirps.

“Hey! There are three episodes left and Gina is fucking hot!”

“Uh huh,” Jeff grins leaning in towards Kirk, “that why you showed up at my place drunk crying last week when Scott got eliminated?”

Kent laughs as Kirk huffs, “Oh fuck off Swoops, Scott was a fucking gentleman and she let him get away.”

Kent shakes his head, “Kirk, you are so fucking gay. And I’m really fucking gay.”

Kirk punches Kent in the arm hard as Jeff laughs along, and this is nice. Kent wasn’t always the Out n’ Proud poster boy he was today. When he came to the league, he was so fucking scared of anyone finding out he was gay he didn’t even look up when he was in the locker room. Everyone on the team seemed nice enough, if a little heteronormative, but he knew hockey guys weren’t exactly the most notoriously accepting bunch. Smithy figured it out in the first year Kent lived with him, and sat him down to explicitly say that he wouldn’t assume anything, but if Kent wanted to bring a guy over to have dinner with them, he could absolutely do that.

It was gruff, and awkward, and so endearingly fatherly, so completely _Smithy_ , that Kent ended up crying in his shoulder from relief and joy. Soon, he mustered up the courage to tell Jeff, and Kirk, and then eventually the whole team. He was planning on maybe publically coming out when someone did that for him. Publically. By releasing a sex tape.

The worst part was it wasn’t even some fucking greedy lay he’d had since being on the Aces, but some hacker who got it from an idiot he slept with when he was seventeen that never deleted their awkward attempt at a sex tape from his computer.

It was a rough year.

It all worked out, kind of. There was a lot of talk, and a lot of hate, but also an overwhelming amount of support and love. Soon he was on the cover of Out magazine and grabbing a cup for the third time.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Kirk points to the bar, “it’s your turn to get drinks Casanova.”

Kent grins at him, “Only ‘cause you asked nicely.”

He gets up and heads towards the bar. He orders two pitchers and throws a wad of cash on the counter, leaning onto it as he waits. The bar is small, a little hole in the wall that’s rustic and dimly lit. Everything in the bar is wooden, deep brown grain that rolls the length of the wall into a bar, with red vinyl booths in the back. It’s quiet, though, an anomaly in Vegas, and the people here are usually more low key than the bigger bars, more locals.

Kent glances next to him and looks at the man in the corner again, sitting on a stool and nursing his amber drink while he scribbles in a notebook. He’s got a thick blonde beard, and glasses perched on his nose; he’s handsome, _so_ handsome and Kent can’t help but stare.

His date last night had been terrible. Granted, he knows he met him on Grindr, and he himself used a fake name, but he was still hoping for something more… meaningful. God, Kent thinks looking away from man, he sounds like a lovesick girl. So what if his last relationship was three years ago. So what if he spends most nights lying in his bed with Kit, the cat he got five years ago when his therapist suggested he might need more physical contact.

He got laid last night. And it was good, even the guy didn’t really _ask_ if Kent wanted to bottom. Which, okay, Kent fucking loves having a dick up his ass, but just because he’s shorter doesn’t mean anyone can assume shit about him. He’s a fucking gentleman; he wants to be _asked_ before he vehemently agrees he wants to be fucked.

Kent looks once more back at the man in the corner, writing still like he can’t tell Kent wants to rub his face into that beard and the ride him like a goddamn stallion. He sighs wistfully, like the fucking schmuck he’s becoming, and takes the pitchers back to his table when the bartender’s finished.

*

 

Kent groans and throws his hand over his face when his alarm goes off. He always gets lazy in the summer, snoozing his alarms until he doesn’t end up going for his runs until mid afternoon, as opposed to his usual 4 a.m. wake up call during the season. It’s halfway through September and training’s supposed to start in a few, so he’s trying to set his alarm for earlier and earlier times each day so when the time comes to actually drive to the arena and run practice he won’t feel like death warmed over. Today he went for 8 a.m. the earliest he could muster after a full day of going over contracting with his manager.

Kit meows irritably from her spot by Kent’s feet as he slowly moves out of bed. He goes to his ridiculously large closet and grabs the first pairs of joggers he can find, throwing them on and stepping out into the blessedly cool morning air not ten minutes later.

Kent lives closer to the real Vegas downtown than to the strip, so it’s far more residential than he ever thought the city was capable of looking. His building is about ten minutes from a small bike path that winds its way through wooded areas shading little parks and man made ponds all the way to the dry beginnings of desert further out east. He usually runs for an hour, choosing different directions and loops each day in some semblance of an attempt to make the jog interesting.

Kent really fucking hates running, but he begrudgingly accepts it’s necessary so mostly he just tries to distract himself in his thoughts for an hour. And because Kent is Kent, a pathetic mess, he can’t help but to think about his date yesterday. It went terribly. He knows he’s never going to see Justin again, that’s for sure.

The team always jokes that Kent is a big whore, because he goes on so many dates, which, yeah, he totally does, but that’s just because he’s hoping something will fucking stick. He’s pushing thirty and he’s had no meaningful relationships in his life. He’s hosting barbeques where more and more of his OG teammates have girlfriends and wives and _kids_ and he’s still bar hopping with new rookies when Jeff takes his girlfriend Tess out and Kirk drives out to see his fiancé in L.A.

He just can’t get people to see him as anything more than some asshole. At least the people he wants to. Kent just wants someone _nice._ Someone who will kiss his forehead in the morning and fuck him hard at night. A gentleman. He doesn’t think it’s too much to ask for.

Kent shakes his head. Those thoughts are usually pretty dangerous and the last time he dwelled too much on them he’d come too closer to the edge of his balcony than he could even remember. He was just fine, thank you; he just needed hockey to start. It was kind of his ultimate excuse to leave feelings tucked away in his bag under shoulder pads and deodorant.

He ran with no real direction for forty minutes, choosing to stay under the lines of trees that gave the air the most bite, made his skin prickle a little. On his way back his leg starts to tickle, tell tale signs of a cramp coming on.

“Oh fuck no, not today Satan,” Kent mutters, grabbing his leg and slowly walking to a nearby bench. He pulled out his ear buds and shoved them into his pockets, breathing deeply as he applied pressure to his calf.

Massaging his leg, he sighed in relief, feeling the muscle loosen and relax under his fingers. Kent looked around, hiking his leg into his lap for an easier angle, and notices he’s run by what looks to be a little playground.

He’s maybe twenty feet back on his little bench, surrounded by the blushing blooms of an old desert willow tree, bushes lining the path in front of him all the way up to a few sets of swings.

There are a few kids on the swings facing away from him, yelling as they pump their feet, higher, higher. In front of the swings are monkey bars, and slides, woven together with little wooden bridges and rope zip lines.

Kent raises an eye brow, it looks fucking _awesome_ and he’s probably going to play on the merry go round until he pukes when he comes back, but _isn’t it a little fucking early for all these kids to be up-_

Kent glances at his watch and sees it’s 9:23.

“Huh,” he concludes. So, yeah, maybe he got up a little later than he wanted to.

It’s when Kent is randomly checking out the equipment, mindlessly massaging his leg, that he stops short.

The other thing about Kent is he also can’t really blame the people that don’t give him a second glance when they identify him as an idiot frat boy, because, well, he definitely has a type too. And fuck if this guy isn’t it.

He’s kind of far, so he can’t really see him in detail, but the man standing by the open slide is fucking _delectable._ He’s tall and bulky, with broad shoulders stretching his long sleeved shirt and thick thighs working his horrendous khakis. He’s got a shock of black hair, cut close to the sides and folding over on the top, with a pair of sunglasses perched on top.

And, as if the guy didn’t already have the audacity to be built like a truck Kent wants to get plowed by _immediately,_ his strong jaw is covered in black, overgrown stubble.

Kent holds back a whimper. This man is so entirely unfair. Leaning back on his heels, holding a cup of presumably coffee in one hand with the other in his pocket so his khakis stretch to showcase an ass Kent can bounce a coin off of. Like he hasn’t just obliterated any thoughts in Kent’s head.

He can’t help himself. He loves big, hunky specimens of all American Man-meat.

The man brings the cup to his lips and takes long sip, eyes still on the slide in front of him. He’s by himself, not huddled talking like the five or six other people there, and far enough away that Kent doesn’t feel bad about sliding his gaze over every curve and edge of him.

“Woo!” a loud scream echoes through the park just then as a little boy emerges at the bottom of the slide. Hot guy smiles, and then puts his coffee between his arm and his chest and he claps. The kid bounds out of the slide and barrels into the guys legs, wrapping him up in a hug as the guy chuckles and runs a hand through the kid’s curly black locks.

And oh _god,_ if that doesn’t rocket his temperature up a few degrees. This daddy is an actual _daddy._

Kent can’t actually hear the guy, he’s too far away, but he imagines his voice is deep and gravely. It’s assertive too, with a bit of a punch. He’s probably one of those dads who’s gruff but loving, who’ll put a hand on your shoulder and give it a firm squeeze-

Kent is very aware he’s got some deep-seated daddy issues but he files that under “Things to Deal With Later” in favor of continuing to stare.

It’s been maybe ten minutes of watching before Dream Daddy borders on a tad creepy, especially when the guy glances at him when he’s walking over the swings.

He decides to finish his run, and who knows maybe he’ll see this guy around.

*

 

“Daddy! Daddy! Watch!”

Kent is aware this is a little odd; he’s standing behind some trees on the other side of the park, pretending to stretch but actually just high-key spying on a hot dad and his kid.

He really liked the path he chose yesterday, so he decided to run the same route again.

Okay, so maybe he just wanted another peak at Dream Daddy, but this path is really nice and shaded this time in the morning.

“Daddy look!” screams his kid, hanging from the middle of the monkey bars.

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” chuckles the dad, and his voice is like _chocolate,_ all smooth and deep.

The kid smiles wide, and then hooks his legs on the bar in front of him, dropping his hands and swinging upside down, “Ta-dah!”

“Very impressive, could use more work on your form though,” the father hums.

Kent huffs out a laugh, because what father even says that? He’s in love with this asshole.

He loses himself so much in amusedly watching the two play that he startles when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles for it for a moment, afraid to catch attention to himself before he slides his phone open.

“Hello?”

“Dude, where are you?”

“Jeff?” Kent asks, turning and walking back towards the walking path. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jeff huffs, “that you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. We have to go to the rink downtown for the kids? Charity? Giving back? Ringing any bells?”

“Shit!” Kent swears. Pre-pre season for the Aces mostly involves doing random events for the community with charities they’re involved in. Him and Swoops are pretty active with You Can Play, and invite kids to come skate on the Ace’s rink before they start using it regularly. “I totally forgot.”

“Where are you anyway? I knocked on your door like a half hour ago,”

“Oh, um,” Kent scratches his head. There isn’t a super good way to explain he’s been spying on a hot dad. “Just went on a run?”

“Whatever, just get over here, we have to be there like, _now,_ before people start showing up.”

With that Jeff hangs up.

Kent locks his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. Dream Daddy is facing away from him now, helping the kid get down from the monkey bars. He wants to go over shove his hands into the pockets of the father’s jacket and lean into him, be enveloped by biceps and pecs.

With one last wistful look he takes off running back towards his place.

*

 

Weeks later, Kirk throws himself dramatically on the bench in front of Kent’s locker when he’s drying off after a well deserved post-practice shower.

“I swear, Coach makes preseason more and more shitty every year,” he says, voice muffled in Kent’s duffle bag he face planted on.

“Good,” Kent laughs, whacking Kirk with his towel. “Gonna get you fucks back in shape,”

“Hey!” yells Ivonov from where he’s just come out of the shower, towel looking comically small on the Russian giant. “Who you call out of shape, pipsqueak?”

“That wasn’t what your girlfriend called me Ivon. Are you over compensating for something?”

The guys left in the locker room “Ohhhhhh” to his sick burn, and Ivonov flips him off even though Kent can see he’s smiling when he turns back to his locker.

Kent turns back to Kirk, who’s returned his face into his duffel, “This is the life man, shut the fuck up.”

Kirk lifts his head to glare at Kent, “I distinctly remember you bitching last week that practices were too damn early, asshole,”

Swoops seemingly metabolizes out of nowhere, leaning on Kent’s shoulder and grinning like a madman, “That’s because our lil’ cappy couldn’t eye fuck the hot dad he’s been creeping on for the last month.”

Kirk’s head pops up as Kent cuffs the back of Jeff’s head, glancing around the emptying locker room, “Hey, not so loud,”

Kent was out to the team, and, yeah, no one had been outwardly hostile towards him, many even showing overwhelming support for him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to broadcast it. He knew a bunch of the guys were real conservative, and weirded out by it.

Jeff, understanding this, looked apologetic, “Kent, you know there’s nothing wrong-“

“Yeah, yeah, we can reassure you later,” Kirk interrupts, ignoring Jeff’s dirty look, “Kent’s got a new man?”

“Kent’s stalking a new man.”

Kent flushes, “I’m not _stalking_ him,”

“Okay, you’re just getting up at the same time everyday, running to the same park, and pretending to stretch behind trees while you ogle a man and his kid play on the swings,”

“I’m _not_ -“ Kent cuts off when he sees Jeff’s wry look.

Okay, so maybe he is stalking this guy. But just a little! It’s just- well, Kent likes to go and just fantasize a little. Not in a creepy way where he think about cutting the guys toes off or anything, just like, regular stuff. Eating cereal in the morning. Getting his feet rubbed after a hard day at practice. Rubbing his cheek against his beard.

At first he was just really hot, which in Kent’s book, is reason enough to stare at a little. But over the past two weeks mystery man has become more than just a piece of eye candy to treat Kent in the morning before he started his day. Kent got to know Dream Daddy. He learned the kid’s name was Isaac, and he was five years old, just about to start Kindergarten in the fall. He found out he was divorced, but friendly with the mom, who seemed to be out of the country, going by what the Isaac was saying. He learned Dream Daddy was a well-meaning hardass, keeping to himself, but loving his kid fiercely and proudly.

Ironically, he learned just about everything except his name.

Jeff only found out when he stumbled upon Kent watching from his bench when he ran the same path that day.

It led to an embarrassing explanation to say the least.

“What does he look like?” Kirk asks Jeff, breaking Kent out of his thoughts. “Lemme guess, he’s tan, buff, kinda old. Basically Kent’s clone, but tall?”

“Hey!”

“No, get this, he’s like a mountain man.”

“A mountain man? Like, lumberjack vibes?”

“Nah, more like,” Jeff searches for a second, before realization hits him and he smacks Kent on the shoulder, “Dude! Gross, it’s cause he’s like a total dad!”

“He is a dad, jackoff!” Kent glares.

“Yeah, but there’s a dad, and then there’s a _dad_ and that guy’s a total dad.”

“You’ve got a _daddy_ kink?” Kirk asks incredulously, ignoring Kent’s distress. The locker room’s empty now, but this is so not a path he wants to go down right now.

“No!”

“Wait, you’ve seen him?” Kirk asks Jeff.

“Yeah, ran into Kent sitting across from a park watching him like a creeper,”

“Dude,” Kirk laughs, “a park? What if they call the cops on you?”

“I do not watch like a creeper! I’m just- he’s interesting is all,” Kent mutters, closing his locker and pushing Kirk off his bag so he can put away his clothes. “It’s clinical, really. I’m observing him. This is for science.”

“Yeah, you studying anatomy now?” Jeff grins while Kirk snickers because his friends are _assholes._

“You know what, fine, you can walk home, bitches,” Kent quotes, turning his nose up and yanks his bag off the bench.

“Gonna see if your man is at the playground?”

Kent leaves with his middle finger up and the guys cackling in the background.

*

 

Kent is pathetic. He has to accept it now. He’s sitting at his bench, again, days later, peeking at Dream Daddy. It’s mid-day, and blessedly cooler. It’s the start of October, and Vegas is getting a little relief from the sweltering heat. Coach let them out early that day, angry they weren’t preforming well. The season is starting later this year, sometime in late October, and despite the shitty practice, they’re already looking pretty good. The two new rookies are good, if a little nervous, and the team is getting a rhythm again after not playing for four months.

Kent went for a walk just to clear his head, sometimes bad practices get him in this cycle where he’s rolling in and out of focus, so scared that the whole team fucking hates him. He knows it’s kind of irrational, Jeff has told him so a bunch of times, but it’s kind of hard to remember when you’re fucking up the one thing you’re actually good at.

Muscle memory took him to his spot. He didn’t expect to see him, let alone see him by himself. Kent’s never seen him without his kid, or at any other time than the early morning. But there he is, sitting on a bench closer to the playground, in all his big, beautiful, glory. It clears his head a little, to focus on this fantasy and just lose himself.

Today he’s wearing light jeans and sneakers, with a zipped up sweatshirt and a hat pulled low on this forehead while he reads a thick looking books. Kent chuckles, because here he is actively staring at this man and _he’s_ the one that is dressed suspiciously.

As if Dream Daddy can feel Kent’s eyes on him, he looks up and straight at Kent. His eyes are beautiful and big, even from a distance Kent can tell, and _shit_ they’re narrowing and-

Kent looks down quickly, fumbling with his phone. Shit shit shit. There’s no way he misinterpreted that look. He saw Kent staring and probably thinks Kent’s gay, which yeah he is, but who knows how this gorgeous, obviously straight God will take it-

“Hey.” a voice calls, deep and annoyed.

Kent looks up and he’s right there, walking towards him like Kent imagined, but his mouth is frowning and he’s angrier.

“Um, hi?”

“You need to leave.”

Kent startles, “What?”

“I said you need to leave.”

Kent blinks up at him. He’s confused, and only a little devastated that this is their first real, non-imaginative conversation. He can’t even take the time to appreciate how good he looks up close.

“What?” Kent repeats, eloquently.

Dream Daddy glares a little harder, “Look, I know you come here every morning and stare at the kids. You look like you’re running, so I didn’t say anything, but I draw the line at you waiting for school to let out. Leave now, or I’m calling the police.”

Kent opens and closes his mouth for a second, “I’m- Wait, dude, this a total misunderstanding, I don’t- what do you mean a school?”

“Don’t play dumb. Are you really going to try and say you weren’t aware you were twenty feet from a school?”

Kent glances at the playground and sure enough, behind the playground, maybe fifty feet back, is a brick two-story building. It’s small, sprawling out to the sides, with the unmistakably child-like drawings covering the windows.

“Huh. I never noticed that.”

Dream Daddy locks his jaw, misinterpreting Kent’s genuine confusion for trying to make light of the situation. “Leave now. If I see you here again I will call the police.”

Kent doesn’t have time to mourn the disaster; he’s too busy feeling mortified. He can feel his face flushing violently, and the voice in his head is scolding him, _why_ did he think this was a good idea. Following a man he found attractive, of course he would notice, think he was a creep. And what did Kent think would come from it?

That he would find out the guy’s name, get to know him. He probably had a wife, was achingly straight, and even if he wasn’t no way he’d want Kent. Kent was good for a quick roll around, and not much else. Good with a hockey stick in his hand, take that away and he was just another fucking douche at the bar.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. God, he’s so fucking embarrassed. He’s having the worst day, he just wants to lie in his bed and never get up. Tears are prickling behind his eyes, and he swipes them away angrily.

He’s walking, stumbling away, and his body feels hot and cold. He can’t fucking identify what he’s feeling, one second it’s bone crushing despair and then he’s angry, _furious_ at himself and Dream Daddy for not living up to who Kent always dreamed he’d be. He can hear in his head the echo of his therapists words telling him he’ll be okay, but its only a soft rumble under the ringing in his ears, and he can’t focus because his chest _hurts-_

“Hey-“

A hand latches onto his shoulder and it’s all too much, “Don’t _touch_ me!”

“I’m not, okay?” Kent dips back into focus slightly, and the guy has his hands up and his expression is no longer stormy. “Want to sit on the bench? Like before? You won’t feel so bad there.”

Kent just wants to leave, to forget any of this happened, but the thought of feeling better is too nice. He slowly walks to the bench, having only moved a few paces and sits down heavily.

The guy sits next to him, with a good amount of space between their thighs. “You’re having a panic attack. Have you ever had one before?”

Kent manages a nod, and closes his eyes.

“Do you take any medicine for them? Maybe something I can give you?”

Kent croaks out a “no,”

“Okay. _Crisse ,_ alright, well my name’s Jack. I’m just gonna sit and talk to you until you feel better. You let me know if you need me to get you medical attention.”

Kent nods absentmindedly, his heart racing and mind going fuzzy around the edges, but not before he can take a second to appreciate.

_Jack._


End file.
